


The Path of the Wolf

by DiscontentedWinter



Series: The Light in the Woods [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Arranged Marriage, Kid Fic, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: Faolán has to find his own path.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Light in the Woods [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1041566
Comments: 171
Kudos: 1031
Collections: Fandom Cares





	The Path of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1031](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1031/gifts).



The little Argent prince is wearing so much velvet and lace that he looks as though he’s about to drown in it. Derek watches as Faolán approaches the little chubby-cheeked golden-haired baby, and holds his breath as Faolán wrinkles his nose, sniffs loudly, and then stares at the baby. His upper lip tugs up, and then he _snarls_.

Derek hurries forward and grabs his son around the waist, hoisting him up and carrying him away. Rude? Certainly, and the Argent delegation will be very unimpressed with Prince Faolán’s wildling manners, but Derek dreads to think what would happen if Faolán turned into a literal wolf. The relationship between the Hales and the Argents is precarious at best, and downright hostile most of the time, and Faolán transforming into a slavering wild animal in front of their plump, defenceless little prince could well be seen as nothing short of a declaration of hostilities.

Derek whisks Faolán out of the hall, ignoring the affronted murmurs of the Argent delegation, who don’t know he just did both their kingdoms a fucking favour, and hurries away with his son before anyone can stop him. He hopes that Laura can smooth over the ruffled feathers he’s left in his wake.

Derek has a headache forming as he climbs the stairs to the north tower of the keep, and the battlements where he and Stiles sleep. It’s the least strange thing about their marriage, he supposes. Stiles likes to be close to the wind so he can hear whatever it whispers to him, and he tells stories about the stars as Derek drifts off to sleep. The last thing Derek sees every night is the starlight reflected in Stiles’s wide, amber eyes.

Faolán is six, and in the middle of a growth spurt. It feels like only yesterday that he was a chubby toddler, but now he’s long-legged and knobbly kneed, a little boy rather than a baby. He’s getting too big to carry, although a part of Derek’s heart breaks to think it.

“Daddy,” Faolán says, tugging Derek’s hair as though saying his name might not be enough to get his attention, “do I have to marry that baby?”

Derek’s stomach twists. He pushes through the door at the top of the stairs, dazzling them both with sunlight. “I don’t know, Moonflower.”

Faolán, like Stiles, has an ever-changing catalogue of names.

_Faolán._

_Moonflower._

_Conmac._

_Chaffinch._

_Ember._

_The Gift of the Trees._

Faolán hums against Derek’s jaw for a moment, and then wriggles to the ground.

“Papa!” He skips across the tower roof to the bed, where Stiles is sitting cross-legged squinting at a book in his lap. Or he may be squinting at the sparrow perched on the pages instead. He smiles broadly when Faolán calls his name, and he opens his arms so that his son can leap into his embrace. The book is crushed between them. The sparrow escapes to the tousled nest of Stiles’s hair. 

Stiles’s smile dims as it settles on Derek, like the moon slipping behind a sliver of cloud.

Derek sighs, and sits down on the bed beside him. He rests his hand, palm up, on the mattress. It only takes a moment before Stiles links their fingers together.

“He is a baby,” Stiles murmurs. “They are both still babies.”

Faolán scrambles off the bed, head tilted as he listens to something Derek can’t hear. The wind is Stiles’s friend, but Faolán also knows how to listen to its voice. He darts along the edge of the tower roof, dragging one hand along the stone wall. Maybe he listens to stones as well; Derek doesn’t know.

“He is a baby,” Stiles murmurs. The sunlight makes his eyes glow amber.

“I know,” Derek says.

It hurts to talk about this, and not just because of Faolán. Any discussion of arranging their son’s betrothal for political reasons—any objection—forces them both to face the fact that their marriage was arranged the same way. Theirs was arranged even before they were born, and while Derek knows now that he loves Stiles, that he could never not love Stiles, it aches when he remembers how cold and indifferent he was when they were first married. He hates the things he thought about Stiles when he first saw him: that he and all his people were wild, dangerous, and monstrous. That Stiles wasn’t human.

Perhaps he is not human, not in the way that Derek understands the word. Perhaps Faolán isn’t either—he can transform into a wolf, after all—but they are not frightening, and they are not _lesser_.

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’s hand.

“We are princes,” he says at last. “We serve our people. We serve our kingdoms. A match between the Hales and the Argents will signal to the world that we are building a lasting peace.”

Stiles creases his brow. “My father didn’t sign the treaty with your mother for politics. He signed it because the rain told him that the Light in the Woods would be safer in Triskelion.”

“What does the rain say about Faolán?” Derek asks, his voice rasping.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. His lower lip trembles before he speaks again. “But the wind says that wolves find their own paths.”

*****

The castle is full of visiting dignitaries—not just Argents, but people from places even farther away. It is a celebration, and important guests arrive each day. The revelries are going to last for a full month. The Hales have ruled Triskelion for three hundred years. Stiles doesn’t grasp the significance—he prefers to measure the passage of time in heartbeats, in laughter, in the change of the seasons, and years and numbers mean very little to him—but everything is very fancy.

Stiles sees the way that all these strangers look at him. The weight of their stares is like snow on his shoulders.

Stiles feels a little like he did when he first came to the castle, where he sought out narrow, secret places to hide, but he’s not that homesick, fading shadow anymore. He is Stiles. He is Derek’s husband. He is a prince of both Triskelion and Laindéir. He killed a darach and made the blood sacrifice of an entire army to the trees. He will not wilt under strangers’ gazes, and he is no longer afraid.

Stiles knows what the people of Triskelion said about him. They said he bewitched Prince Derek with his magic, and took him into his thrall. Maybe they still say it. Stiles doesn’t know for certain. The people who matter, though, they know him. They know his heart. They know that he has named them _tuatha_ , his family, and they know that there is no power in all of nature that Stiles will not bend for their protection. The only people that should fear Stiles are those who mean his family harm, but fear, the wind reminds him as it tickles the shell of his ear, twists and spins like a leaf caught in the eddy of a stream, buffeted by the push and pull of the water surrounding it. Stiles cannot kill their fear of him, because he will never not be strange to them.

He cannot kill it; he can only withstand it and hope that one day the water settles.

Stiles stares at those who stare at him as he makes his way throughout the passages of the castle.

Peter Hale’s door is always open to Stiles. Stiles remembers not understanding that when Peter said it, because his door was closed at the time. There are still sayings in Triskelion that make no sense to him, but he understands the door one now. He knows that whenever he knocks, Isaac will admit him without question.

Isaac does, and then closes the door behind him.

Peter is sitting a chair by the window. There’s a chessboard on the table in front of him. He waves Stiles over to join him.

Stiles sits and studies the pieces for a moment. Then he picks up the king.

“When I came here, I thought I was an insult,” Stiles says. He clears his throat, turning the piece over in his hand. “But I was…” He searches for the right word. “I was a void. I was an emptiness, a blank space at the end of the page. You made Derek marry me so that there would be no children with my blood in your family.”

“Yes,” Peter says. He is too sharp to ever apologize for putting the Hales first, and Stiles wouldn’t expect it of him. “I was paranoid and distrustful. I also neglected to account for the existence of magic.” His expression softens. “I will be forever grateful I was wrong about you, and about Beacon, and forever grateful that both you and Faolán are in our lives.”

“Queen Laura wants peace with the Argents,” Stiles says. He sets the king down again. “But she did not offer Ellora in marriage to the Argent baby. You want no Argent blood either.”

“Yes,” Peter says. “Ellora will be queen one day. We want no Argent that close to our throne.”

“So Faolán…” Stiles tips a pawn over. “So he has no choice.”

“I gave Derek no choice, Stiles,” Peter says, and there is a flicker of regret in his blue gaze now. “Your father gave you no choice.”

“Wolves find their own paths,” Stiles says. The wind told him, and the wind is never wrong. The wind is fickle, teasing, but never wrong.

Peter runs his finger along the edge of the chessboard. “Laura,” he says, tapping the white queen. He touches the black king. “Christopher Argent. And all the rest of us, pieces moving around the squares on the board, in accordance with the rules.”

Stiles presses his lips together into a tight line and nods.

“I have another chess set in my chest,” Peter says, “with the pieces carved out of jasper.”

Stiles imagines a green king. He blinks down at the board. “There is no space for them here.”

Peter hums, and lifts the corners of his mouth in a smile. “You can play more than one game at a time, Stiles.”

Peter speaks in riddles, the same as the wind. 

It’s no wonder that Stiles likes him.

*****

Delegations of noblemen and noblewomen from all the kingdoms and principalities on the map mean long meals three times a day, and even longer conversations. Derek has always felt himself more comfortable serving the kingdom with his sword than with his tongue, but then he’s always been a better swordsman than a conversationalist. Stiles, who can talk underwater with a mouthful of pebbles, also hates the long dinners. There is too much pomp and pageantry involved with the anniversary celebrations, and Stiles hates even wearing shoes, let along adhering to other social customs like not bringing mice or sparrows to the dinner table. Even Derek wishes that he could escape with the children most days, to the colourful tent village that’s sprung up along the south side of the wall, in the field where the wildflowers bloom.

There are pony rides, and puppet shows, and a troupe of tumblers amongst a hundred other delights, all for the entertainment of the children of foreign dignitaries, and for those lucky Triskelion children who live close enough to the keep to visit.

When Faolán is late for his writing lesson one day, Derek knows exactly where to find him.

The tent village has the feel of a fairground. Bright pennants flutter in the breeze, and the village is filled with music and laughter. Children race around with dirty knees and smudged faces, watched by indulgent parents or nurses. Here, the children of kings and queens mix with the children of blacksmiths and soldiers and servants, and none of them care. Someone has even brought the Argent prince down for a look: he stares wide-eyed at the colour and movement as he’s bounced on a nursemaid’s lap.

Derek finds Faolán running around in the space behind the puppet theatre, dragging a wooden sword after him. He’s playing with a small group of older children, or at least—Derek’s heart clenches—at least he’s _trying_ to.

Derek doesn’t know these boys. They aren’t from Triskelion—they must be dignitaries’ children. They’re older than Faolán, bigger, and they’re faster. Faolán is trying his hardest to keep up with them, but the way they stay out of his reach, turning back to laugh, tells Derek that it’s not a game. Faolán might not have realised it yet, but the older boys are being cruel to him.

Derek is about to stride into their midst when he’s beaten to it by a mousy woman.

“My lords!” she calls, and the older boys stop and look at her as she beckons them over. She gathers them up like a mother hen, and bustles them away, sweeping past Derek. “What did your parents say? You are not to play with _that_ one. It’s dangerous!”

Derek sees the moment Faolán hears the words and his face falls.

Derek’s eyes sting, but he forces a smile as he hurries forward to collect his son. Faolán drops his wooden sword in the dirt, and Derek lifts him into his arms. Faolán doesn’t say anything, but his green eyes brim with tears and he buries his face in Derek’s throat.

“Don’t listen to them, Faolán,” Derek says, his throat aching. “Don’t listen to them, baby boy.”

Faolán’s little body shakes with silent sobs.

Derek whisks him away, ignoring the stares and whispers that follow them.

***** 

The _ceanurra_ of Laindéir does not arrive in Triskelion in a fine coach, or even on horseback with a bannerman leading with a flag. He walks, a bag slung over his shoulder, and is accompanied only by a red-haired woman who goes by the name of Lydia when she is in Triskelion. If the wind hadn’t told Stiles they were almost here, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck in its excitement, Stiles thinks that the guards at the gate might have turned them away. John does not look anything like a king, even though more power flows through him than anyone here who wears a crown.

He is a man of middle years. The lines on his face show his years like the rings in the trunk of a tree. His hair is greying now, and his skin is tanned and weathered. His eyes are the same pale blue as the sky at dawn, at the moment the stars begin to cede to the faint daylight. He wears brown breeches and a green tunic. He looks like a woodsman who has stepped out of the trees for a moment, as quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow.

“Dad!” Stiles yells in Laindéiran, darting past the guards. “Dad, you came! I missed you!”

The moment John’s arms are around him, Stiles is a child again, happiness brimming up in him and bubbling over in his laugh.

“You’re late though,” he chides.

“We came when the time was right,” John tells him.

Time, like everything, is measured differently in Laindéir. There are no clocks or timepieces there. There are no calendars. Time is sometimes measured in the slower pace of seasons. It is measured in the number of storms that break in the sky, or in the passage of the moon, or the length of the shadows the trees cast on the lake. It is measured in the depth of the water in the streams, or the pace the snow melts in the spring. There is no use for minutes or hours in Laindéir.

“Come and see,” Stiles says. “Come and see where you will sleep. Derek and Faolán are waiting for you.”

John and Lydia are sleeping on the battlements too, much to the consternation of the castle’s steward. The man fussed and fretted until Stiles said that he could rig curtains between John and Lydia’s beds, and put another one up to screen Stiles and Derek’s bed off from view. Stiles tried to tell him how people sleep in Laindéir, on open _fletts_ floating on the lake, slowly drifting towards and away from one another all throughout the night. The man almost had a conniption at that, so Stiles didn’t mention that in summer many people in Laindéir sleep naked. He’s not sure the man’s heart would take it.

John and Lydia look a little uneasy as the walls of the castle close in around them, and Stiles leads them up the winding tower steps to the parapet.

The weight Stiles has been carrying in his heart for Faolán lifts when Faolán sees John and his small face lights up with a smile brighter than the sun.

“Grandpa!” he screams in delight, running for him, and John lifts him and swings him around, murmuring to him in Laindéiran.

 _“Grandpa?”_ Stiles had asked the first time he heard the Triskelion word. _“Pa for father, yes?”_

 _“Yes.”_ Derek had been fighting a smile.

_“And grand for… bigger? Fancier? A father’s father is bigger and fancier than a father?”_

_“I don’t know why it’s called that, Stiles.”_

_“And you say_ Laindéiran _makes no sense!”_

 _“I don’t know!”_ And Derek’s laughter had escaped him then, and caught Stiles too, and they’d both laughed until their breath had left them.

If it was just Stiles and Derek and Faolán, Stiles thinks, they would laugh all the time. Even if it was just Stiles and Derek and Faolán and the rest of the Hales, he would be happy here beyond measure, except it’s never just the Hales, because the Hales are rulers. They cannot put that aside, and so things creep in like treaties and dignitaries and etiquette and politics and betrothals. Stiles loves the Hales—he has made them his family—but he does not love the things that are required of them, and of him. Mostly, he does not love the things that are required of his son.

It’s not easy to talk about with Derek, because he and Derek were both very unhappy at the beginning of their marriage, but now they love one another. Stiles knows he cannot protect Faolán from unhappiness, even if it comes guaranteed with love at the end—but it doesn’t. Stiles has seen the places where lighting hits and nothing by blasted earth remains. And lightening, the trees tell him as they surround the charred trunk of a fallen fellow, never strikes the same place twice. Stiles and Derek might have had their hearts struck, but Faolán and the little Argent prince? Stiles doesn’t want to gamble with his son’s happiness, not even for peace. Not when the wolf has to find his own path.

But he doesn’t know how to tell Laura that, when she is Queen of Triskelion.

He watches as John and Faolán chatter like birds, his happiness and his despair both tugging at the strings of his heart. Because if Stiles has ever thought himself caught between worlds, then how does Faolán feel? He is loved by his family—his cousin Ellora worships the ground he walks on, whether moonflowers bloom in his footsteps each day or not—but there is a part of him that will never belong in Triskelion: he is a Beaconite, a wildling, a strange creature with powers that frighten those who do not know him. Stiles knows Faolán’s heart, he knows that his son is _good_ , but there are those here who only remember that when he wishes, Faolán has fangs. Just as there are those who look at Stiles and remember the way he fed an entire army to the trees. And they are grateful, but they are also fearful. The wind says that the wolf must find its own path, but Stiles thinks that this is one that they share for now, and he wishes it was an easier path for Faolán to walk.

He’s so small, and his heart is so big, and Stiles knows it hurts him when other children aren’t allowed to play with him. If other children are scared of Faolán, it’s only because their parents have taught them to fear him.

It isn’t fair, and it’s too heavy a weight for a child to carry.

Stiles turns as he hears footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Peter steps out onto the parapet.

“John,” he says, his face splitting with a wide smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

They embrace.

There was a time when Peter was scarred and in pain, but the same magic that birthed Faolán healed him. And, Stiles thinks, it healed a piece of his heart as well. Peter used to be colder. The fire burned out all the living parts of him, and those parts cannot ever fully regrow. Those parts take the shape of a wife and a daughter who died in the fire, but Peter smiles these days. He loves Faolán and Ellora. He loves being their uncle, and their ringleader in any mischief. Perhaps he was like that once with Laura and Derek and Cora, and perhaps with his daughter, but he lost it after the fire because every living moment was focussed on protecting the family he had left, and in making sure Triskelion didn’t fall to its enemies.

But he smiles these days, and it makes Stiles happy.

Derek smiles too, though his smiles have been more strained since the Argents arrived. And not just because of the past, but because of the future too. Because of Faolán.

Because perhaps in his heart of hearts, Derek knows too that lightning never strikes the same place twice.

When they all go downstairs to present themselves to Queen Laura, Peter tugs a moment at Stiles’s sleeve, nods toward John, and whispers, “It’s your green king, Stiles.”

And Stiles knows exactly what Peter was telling him all along.

There are different chess pieces. There are different boards.

And Faolán might be a pawn on one board, but on another, he’s a king.

*****

“The wolf chooses his own path,” John says late at night to Laura Hale.

Derek’s chest tightens as he watches Laura’s expression.

They are in Laura’s private drawing room. There is a fire crackling behind Laura as she sits in her chair, her husband Jordan standing at her side.

John and Derek and Stiles are sharing a couch. Peter is leaning against the wall, seemingly paying more attention to Ellora and Faolán as they play with wooden soldiers than to the conversation, but Derek doesn’t doubt for a moment he’s listening avidly.

“We need peace with the Argents,” Laura says. “And Faolán has a duty as a prince of Triskelion.”

“He’s not just your prince,” John says. “He’s mine too. He is the only son of my only son, and he is my heir until the rain and the trees say different.”

Laura’s brow creases. “Until they say different?”

“He might be _ceanurra_ one day,” John says. “It is not for me to say. It is for the magic in the land and the water and the sky to decide that. It is for the Old Ones to know, and to share with us when it is time. But my claim on him as the son of my son is greater, I think, than yours.”

John is King of Beacon, though he would never call himself that. He is a man in doeskin pants and a worn green tunic. He looks more like a woodsman than a king, but it’s all there in his gaze: his poise, his wisdom, and his core of steel.

Peter unpeels himself from the wall. “Any decision about Faolán’s future,” he says, “cannot be made by Triskelion alone.”

And John, Derek suspects, will be intractable on this, because he knows that's what both Stiles and Derek want. And because it's for Faolán. He also suspects Peter's involvement somewhere, though Peter will never admit it. 

“Find another way, Laura,” Peter says softly, “And let Faolán find his.”

Laura knows when she’s been outmanoeuvred. She dips her chin in acknowledgement, and quirks her mouth. “One thing you’ve always taught me, Uncle Peter, is that there is always another way.”

Derek exhales a shuddering, relieved breath.

Over by the wall, Faolán laughs in delight as Ellora’s wooden soldiers trample over his.

*****

Allison Argent’s smile as she dandles her son on her knee is entirely free of artifice, and Stiles warms to her immediately.

“Hello,” he says, tugging Faolán forward by the hand. “Can he see the baby, please? He likes babies.”

Allison waves her guards and maids back. “Of course.”

They’re in the garden outside the chapel. It’s nice in the sunlight. The princess is sitting on a rug so that she doesn’t stain her expensive dress. Stiles, who is wearing leggings with a hole in one knee and a shirt he took from Derek yesterday morning, kneels down on the grass.

“I’m sorry there is no betrothal,” he murmurs.

Faolán sits down cross-legged beside him, and peers at the baby.

“No, you aren’t,” Allison says, and her smile turns mischievous. “But neither am I, so don’t worry. I want peace too, but there are other ways.”

“Faolán will find his own path,” Stiles says.

Allison’s expression softens. “I hope so.”

Faolán leans forward and inspects the little prince. “I didn’t mean to growl last time,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you. I thought you might like to see my wolf.”

The little prince blows a spit bubble.

“He doesn’t talk yet,” Allison says. “But I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean to scare him. I don’t think you even did!”

Faolán smiles, and holds out his hand.

The little Argent prince grabs his finger and burbles at him.

And Stiles and Allison sit in the garden and talk as the afternoon shadows grow longer, and the winds whispers in the trees.

*****

_Sixteen years later_

Faolán lifts his snout to the breeze to catch the scent of the trespasser. He suspects Monrovian spies, though most of them aren’t stupid enough to cross the border into Laindéir. Bad enough they think they can skulk around on Triskelion territory, but the realisation that this one has crossed into Laindéir causes Faolán’s hackles to rise, and a growl to rumble deep in his chest. He’s been tracking this scent for hours now, and it’s getting stronger as each step brings him closer to his quarry.

Faolán glances up at the moon as he slips through a clearing in the trees. It isn’t full, so he hasn’t been gone a whole month. Dad won’t be sending out a search party yet, and Papa won’t be sending the wind to nag him and harass him and to tug his whiskers when he tries to ignore it.

He promised to be back from Laindéir in time for Ellora’s birthday, and Ellora is not always forgiving of how often he travels between Laindéir and Triskelion, mostly because she’s not allowed to do the same thing. She sees it as freedom, although it doesn't feel exactly like that to Faolán. He's forever moving between his fathers' kingdoms, and never quite finding the balance between them that fits him, the place that feels like home. 

Faolán pauses at the mouth of a gully and lifts his nose again.

 _There_.

That scent of sweat and dirt and blood. It tastes like copper on his tongue, and Faolán pricks his ears to listen. He can hear footfalls somewhere up ahead: a crunch of a boot on leaf litter, and then a scrape. His quarry is injured, which would explain how easy it’s been to track him. Injured and—Faolán chuffs as he hears the thump of someone stumbling into a tree—blind as a bat in the darkness.

He treads forward, his large paws soundless on the same leaf litter that announces every clumsy step his quarry makes.

The leaves in the trees rustles around him as he moves, whispering his names.

_Faolán._

_Moonflower._

_Conmac._

_Chaffinch._

_Ember._

_The Gift of the Trees._

Faolán slinks forward, keeping his body close to the ground as he winds his way along the gully. The scent is stronger now: salty and sharp. He can hear snuffling tears as he creeps closer, and he flicks his ears back warily.

He pauses behind the cover of a fallen log, and peers through the darkness.

It’s a _boy_. It’s a teenage boy in torn, muddy clothing, with twigs caught in his messy golden hair. If he’s a Monrovian spy, then the Monrovians are very much scraping the bottom of the barrel.

The boy sniffles again, and then trembles with the cold, and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his tunic.

Faolán transforms back into his human form, his skin rippling as the shift settles over him. He blinks a few times to get used to his human vision, and then reaches out and picks up a large dry twig. He snaps it loudly.

“Wh-who’s there?” the boy calls in a tremulous voice. “Stay back! I’m armed!”

He’s not.

Faolán rolls his eyes, and stands up. “No, you’re not, but I’m naked, so I guess we’re even, right?”

“Who are you?” The boy shuffles back on his ass, leaves crunching under him. “Oh, shit, you really are naked!" He swallows, his throat bobbing, then juts his chin out imperiously. This is _Argent_ territory.”

“No, it isn’t,” Faolán says. “This is Laindéir.”

“What?” The boy’s face falls. “Oh, gods. Please don’t kill me and eat me!”

“I already ate,” Faolán tells him. “What happened to you?”

“I…” The boy winces as he pulls his left leg up. “I was ambushed. I got away, but my horse threw me, and I’ve twisted my ankle. Am I really not in Argent lands anymore?”

“You’re at least ten miles into Laindéir.” Faolán kneels down beside him, hiding a smile at the way the boy’s face flushes and his scent sharpens as his gaze slides over his naked body. He touches the boy’s boot, and the boy winces. “I can carry you back there.”

The boy snorts. “A whole ten miles?” And then he screws up his pretty face. “Not that I’m not grateful though.”

“Right,” Faolán agrees. “You sounded really grateful just then.”

That earns him an unwilling smile. “So you’re _not_ going to kill me and eat me?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good! Just, um, just checking.” The boy clears his throat. “If you take me back to my family, they will reward you handsomely.”

Faolán tilts his head. "How handsomely?”

“I don’t know,” the boy says. “You could probably buy some clothes or something.”

“There you go with that gratefulness again,” Faolán points out.

“Sorry,” the boy says, and his smile does seem apologetic. “I talk without thinking. I’m always getting in trouble for it.”

“Let’s get you up,” Faolán says, and holds his hands out.

The boy grasps them.

Faolán jolts as he feels a spark of something run through him, like lightning.

 _Home_. 

“What’s your name?” he asks the boy.

“Etienne,” the boy says, gazing up at him. “Etienne Argent.”

The wind laughs brightly in the trees.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as an auction fic for fandomcares. Thank you so much to L for supporting such a great cause, and for Fandomcares for putting everything together! I went a little off prompt (since when does that not happen?) but I hope you like the result! 
> 
> I took longer to get to this than I wanted, because Bunnywest and I were also in the middle of writing a novel. (If you want to know more about that, check my [Tumblr](https://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com/post/622152428394086400/imprisoned-pickpocket-loth-isnt-sure-why-a-bunch))


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